


Beginnings

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Gen, Pre-Game(s), Replicas, Replication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:36:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the start of everything. He was the cause of so much pain, and the recipient of even more. And through it all, he laughed emptily if only to have something to hold onto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginnings

They’re taking notes. Scribble, scribble against fresh, crisp paper (where did they find paper down here? It is a dumb thought - one he knows better than to think - and still smirks coldly down at his own impeccable shoes) and louder still with their supposedly whispered remarks. Judgements that they have no right to, the silly fools - as if their criteria needs to be approved. Their opinions are completely irrelevant. His, on the other hand - critical.

“Throw back numbers one through four,” he says without even sparing them a glance. There were people who, at first, thought they might be good enough. Those people too were thrown away, easily enough.

Did he frighten them? He wondered sometimes, idly, when he wasn’t focused on his own upcoming, inevitable death or the various pointless meetings and more pointless smiles, if these peons feared him. They should, if they knew what was good for them. Most people should fear him simply on principle. A Fon Master is to be respected, revered, but most of all, he should inspire terror. The thought made his lips quirk further, and he watched as four bodies were yanked away, their owners’ bare feet stumbling on the uneven terrain.

 

“Five, step forward.”

It’s a casual order, much like most of them are, but it takes a moment to be followed, and that is not at all pleasing. Ion’s orders are absolute. They should be followed before he even has to open his mouth. He supposes, for this one moment, he can afford to be lenient.

If the peons do not fear him, these replicas do not know how to. The first few were so broken that there was no point in checking to see if they ‘felt’ anything, though Four had at least shown brief promise. Five - Five feels something. It shifts on its feet subtly, as if to avoid the blisters and scratches rocks are no doubt digging in to. It’s an ugly look to see on a face that mirrors his own, and Anion scowls.

“Stop moving,” he snaps, his moods as mercurial as the sea surrounding Daath, and he takes several pointed steps forward until he is standing immediately in front of his replica.

Five has, at least, learned to not look him in the eye. It is not an exact mirror, then, and Ion knows how sickly and pale he looks beneath his makeup and forced exterior, and yet, this replica looks… healthy. It’s wrong, so wrong, and it makes Ion pull one hand back and slap the replica firmly across the face. Five’s head snaps to the side, eyes open and mouth slightly slack. It looks almost shocked.

“Do you think you mean _anything_ to me?” Ion snarls low, too low for his voice to carry anywhere but between them. “Do you think you have the right to - ”

No, he realizes as the replica continues to stare off to the side, the shock sliding away to uneasy indifference. The replica has no idea what a ‘right’ is. It barely knows how to walk, to eat, to sleep, to drink. Even these basics have to be forced upon the older ones, the ones that are more broken than even the two standing here before him.

“Pathetic,” he says, and sighs, as though it has all put him off his meal. He steps back and sees the replica slightly twitch. Its cheek is starting to swell, a hand-shaped bruise easily seen in the dust that coats its skin. Ion brushes the hand off on his robes, uncaring of what it does to the already dirtied fabric, and stares at the thing that is supposed to replace him.

_You will die at the age of 12._

What would these replicas read of the cursed Score? What false truths would they attempt to garner from such lies? Would the people come from all over the world and beg and plead for good news, when there was never good news to deliver? Death and disease, famine and hatred, loss and war - _these_ were the truths of the Score, yet the people heard only of the fake prosperity they would no doubt cause themselves just to force the Score to remain accurate.

“Fon Master? Are you well?” The tall, imposing man could have silenced a room with a single look; it was an expression Ion himself used, and he found Vandesdelca Grants even more amusing for it.

“Never,” he chuckles, “but that is not the trouble here. This thing is useless, as are the first four. And from the way the sixth looks, it is better, but not by much.”

Van nods, sagely, like he predicted such an outcome as well, and glances down at the boy destined to die long before he will ever be able to live out his hatred.

“A seventh is needed, then,” he says, and Ion almost slumps, almost gives an indication of how weary those words make him feel. Instead he straightens further despite the aches and pains of a body too young and tightens his grip on his staff.

“I had thought this would not take so many tries,” Ion says, harsh and reprimanding. Van nods again and places a weighty hand on the small shoulder.

“It is not a perfect system.”

“If it is to pass as me,” Ion says and waves at the one before him and then at the other standing a few feet away, “it _should_ be perfect.”

A smile tugs on Van’s lips, but it is not of happiness. Bemusement, perhaps, and Ion is half tempted to slap it off the bigger man’s face, just to teach him a lesson.

“I could have you thrown into a prison cell somewhere, I’m sure, for even implying I am anything less,” he says haughtily, and this time Van does chuckle.

“It is strange to hear such words from you, Fon Master, that is all.”

“I imagine it is.”

As Van motions for the two replicas to be taken from the room, Ion begins to make his way towards the adjoining chamber. The heat from the volcano makes his knees shake, his skin feel like it is on fire, and he wonders if perhaps it is what his replicas will feel when they dispose of them. It served them right, for not meeting his standards. They, nor any other replica, deserved to take his place, or live.

 _Worthless trash_.

Ion sheds his garments, leaving them in an unhurried pile, and only once he is down to his undertunic and leggings does he lay down on the uncomfortable metal bed. Above him he traces the fonic sigils with his eyes, glyphs he knows the name and use of, each and every one. He listens as the machine starts up, the cold, unheeding voice of fontech as it slowly begins to activate, and he looks to his right to see Van himself at the controls.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and Ion finds he cannot help it. He laughs, harsh and grating and cruel, and loses himself to the coughing fit afterwards. He nearly blacks out, and for a short time, he realizes that perhaps he did just that.

Yet Van is still waiting, and the fontech is warming to uncomfortable levels at his back, so he readjusts his head, closes his eyes, and answers, “Always.”


End file.
